


Pass Our Lips.

by fearless_seas



Category: 18th Century CE RPF, American History RPF
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, F/M, M/M, Teasing, Undressing, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-17
Updated: 2018-03-17
Packaged: 2019-04-01 10:53:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13996734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fearless_seas/pseuds/fearless_seas
Summary: “Are you wearing my shirt?”, it came out poised as a question–but it wasn’t because they both fully knew the answer.





	Pass Our Lips.

**Author's Note:**

> This was requested by anonymous on Tumblr.

**October, 1791 | Philadelphia, Pennsylvania**

**______________________**

 

          It’s nearly midnight when Thomas Jefferson ascended the staircase to bed leaving the other two gentlemen in silence to muse over a bottle of Cognac. James Monroe stretched out his long legs, tugging at the collar of his jacket. The heat from the fireplace was making him increasingly uncomfortable and he shifted in his chair. The stairs eased and groaned before a door opened and then shut again. The reticence was almost unbearable and the crackle of logs seemed their only comfort. James Madison tugged at the cuff of his sleeve and let his wrist out into the air. Eliza House had gone to bed hours ago, allowing the parlor open to them for use. James had only arrived hours ago in a carriage from New York. The clock chimed twelve times and the fire maintained its fervent roaring.

          Madison stilted a yawn, catching James’ attention as he pulled his eyes off of the vivid flames. “Are you going to bed?”, he asked, his own naturally soft, low voice strong as it echoed down from the rafters. James almost regretted speaking anything at all because Madison narrowed his eyes and stood up off the chair. But then, they smiled weakly, lapis eyes twinkling intelligently as he turned towards the table. 

          “I should’ve hours ago,” even their rough voice sounded groggy and slurred in delirium. Despite the hours, the younger was wide awake, wondering exactly what he was to do to no bring attention to himself (even though nobody else was there). Madison reached out a slender hand, brushing all of papers the three of them had sprawled over the top into a neat pile. “In a moment,” they kept their eyes on each other but did not fully face one another. They turned back around, “Are you going to stay out?”, he asked, and James finally met his eyes as if he’d been avoiding them for quite a while. 

          His own mouth twitched as if deciding to smile or to frown. It chose neither. “Perhaps shortly,” his body was live and his mind was robust. Elizabeth was in New York visiting family and showing off their new charge to her family. He missed them already. He rubbed his eyelids, thinking tomorrow he shall write to her, by then they’d of been apart for over twenty-four hours–that was long enough. Perhaps he was smiling, a deep, rare grim that pried his lips apart and revealed teeth because Madison paused in his movements as though one were witnessing lightening on a sunny day. 

          “Are you alright?”, he quieted, his thin brows shot up and creased at the center of his broad forehead. 

          James’s palm left his cheek and he straightened his posture. “Lost in thought,” was all he said. He’ll dream of her tonight, he knows this. He’ll make it a long letter this time. Madison bowed his head slightly, his chin tipping. 

          “I’ll see you upstairs,” with that, he crossed towards the stairs, climbing them slowly. James followed him leave, trailed his every movement until they were quite out of sight and he collapsed back into his chair. Until he’d officially rented the house on Arch Street Jefferson had recommended and Elizabeth would meet him in the city, he’d chosen to share an apartment with James Madison at the House Inn. It was the only place the two Virginians ever stayed in that city. 

          Joseph Jones, his uncle, years ago had winked his eye and leaned in closer.  _“Princeton was terrible,”_ he stuck out a tongue comically at his nephew.  _“They don’t make beds for **our** size,”_ Jones chuckled, normally he was rather serious. Even though Monroe was thirty at the time, his uncle still leaned over and prodded him above the hip as if he were a child. His uncle was over five foot eleven, Monroe over six, he could see where he was coming from.  _“And,”_ Jones continued,  _“I shared a bed with James Madison. He doesn’t take up **any** space.”_ James cannot remember if he had grinned when his uncle said this in the past, but he is now.

          It was close to one in the morning before Monroe headed upstairs. Only then were his eyelids beginning to flicker shut. At the top of the inn steps, he paused, maybe he was delirious because he couldn’t recall if it was door three or four. He checked his palm, sure enough, he’d inked a sizable four into the skin of his hand to remind himself. The hallway was dim and maybe he shouldn’t of had anything to drink so late; he didn’t indulge himself in the bottle often. He pushed the door open, expecting it to be dark and for Madison to be fast asleep. Through the small crack of the door, radiance sliced into the shadowed corridor and Monroe strides full inside. His friend’s arched back was hunched over the desk at the far end of the window. The only sounds were his own footsteps on the wood floor entering the room and the scribble of a quill on parchment paper. 

          “I though you were retiring for the evening?”, he chided the former. _Evening? It was nearly two in the morning_. Mentally, the gears shifted in his skull and he groaned. The man seemed startled at his presence and managed to jump up, whirling around in his chair. They placed their arm on the back of the chair to sturdy themself. They had allowed their hair to fray slightly above the ears as you appear when you have moved too much in your sleep.

          “Not tired?”, Madison grimaced when Monroe nodded, returning to the desk top and placing his ink back in the quill. “Do not you ever sleep?”, for an odd reason they sounded as if they were scolding him. 

          Monroe allowed a corner of his mouth to raise slightly in expression. “Mr. Monroe sleeps when Mr. Monroe wishes to sleep,” Madison only cocked his head while the other shook theirs. He added, “Of course I do,” to smooth over the chilled air.

          Madison sighed, “I supposed it is late.” The taller made no movement as the other shuffled out of the desk chair like a delicate china doll. It was only when they stood up and the shirt he had changed into tumbled across his thin frame that James opened his mouth an inch in surprise. The shirt he was wearing tumbled far past his bony knees, the sleeves extending out past his hands as he continued to push them up to elbows and out of the way. The curtains had been drawn over the paned windows and the candle flickered over the crimson. Madison didn’t appear to notice anything was off or that Monroe was staring at him as he crossed towards the bed, rolling the covers down from the backboard. 

 _Should I tell him?_  James reasoned, nervously brushing back a stray, dark curl of hair behind his ear. He tore his glimpse off and began unbuttoning the front of his own shirt. _What I am to wear to bed?_  All he knew is that maybe he should converse less in his head and more with his tongue. Once his waistcoat was off, he placed his hands behind his head and tore the ribbon out of place. _What was the use of typing it up?_ He’d always kept it short anyways. Nails drew it out, allowing to fan out against the back of his neck, just touching his shoulder bones. All the while, he kept Madison at the peripheral of his vision without staring. They were straightening the items in their trunk. Monroe hesitated a moment, waiting until Madison had turned his back before grasping the edges of his shirt and tugging it over his head. The autumn chill settled across his skin and tiny goosebumps appeared. They were now back at the side of the bed, straightening objects resting on a tiny dresser. 

          James removed his stockings, blowing the hair out of his eyes and then recessing the tension from his shoulders. His attention drew to the corner with his own trunk, the top was patent and he confined himself to this.  _That wasn’t open when I left_. Not that he was annoyed, for he was never cross, perhaps merely curious as a scientist attempting to make sense of the things inside us. He crossed his arms, fingertips brushing his bare forearms. He felt as if another had placed him under a microscope and was examining him. The mattress creaked, the posts rattling as Madison hopped onto his side of the bed. 

          It was burning inside of him and it was difficult to allow things just to be.  **“Are you wearing my shirt?”** , it came out poised as a question–but it wasn’t because they both fully knew the answer. 

          Madison paused, rubbing his fingers together in thought. Maybe it was just an excuse not to meet his eyes. Then their scrutiny pointed at him, every gesture deliberate in its execution. Monroe felt his ears warm, his cheeks faintly a rouge. The pearl color nearly blended with Madison’s pale skin. The sleeves bunched up, the edges coming farther than his wrists. It barely kept on his narrow shoulders, revealing the sharp, porcelain collar-bone beneath the fragile skin. The eldest leaned farther over the covers as a man who was to divulge a secrete. 

          “I opened the wrong trunk, I suppose,” his thin lips tugged into a simper. _No you didn’t_. _It was a game_ , Monroe thought, and he was oddly fascinated by it. A simpleton could tell that they was lying. For reasons, James didn’t mind at all. Wether it was hour or the drink, they’ll never know. The candle was blown out, they both crawled into bed beneath the covers. It was true, what his Uncle Jones had told him, because his toes just came past the blanket and he had to arch his legs into a crouch. They were also right, because Madison’s size did not take up any space at all. Despite all the room, however, Monroe felt Madison’s back shift to be right up against his chest, the shafts of his spine protruding into his own ribs. A warmth shivered through his bones. Their light tawny hair was tickling his throat and something in his abdomen spun over. His mouth felt hot and dry. 

          Maybe, if he was tempted enough, he’d throw an arm slowly over their waist and tug them closer than they already were. Madison kept shifting nearer, and nearer as if tempting him. James nibbled at his lip and his fingers itched to do just that. Eventually, he did reach an arm over the space and put it over their waist. The bones of their hips prodded at his wrist. James felt him smile, heard it because the way it made a hitch in the ebb and flow in his steady breaths. Even as he sensed the air enter and leave his lungs and they were trapped in a peculiar intimacy–like a secret, not even the dust of their moments together will ever pass their lips. 

**Author's Note:**

> If you follow me on Tumblr (@sonofhistory) you'll know I'm the James Monroe expert so all researched etc. I appreciate comments, thank you for reading! :)


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